Chapter 8 - THE PRICE OF PROTECTION
For ten years.
The words followed me home.
My grandmother had designed the trust to protect me from exactly the kind of people I had married into.
But protection had a price.
If the anti-coercion clause triggered, I could not sell the commercial unit.
I could not borrow against the trust.
I could not access a large portion of the investment income.
I would be safe.
And financially frozen.
"Can we stop it?" I asked Christopher.
"Maybe. But first we need to determine whether the clause has legally triggered."
Priya reviewed the records.
By evening, she found the problem.
Someone had already filed a transfer request using my forged signature.
That filing may have activated the clause.
"So they couldn't steal it," Amy said, "but they could lock Elizabeth out of her own money?"
Priya nodded grimly.
"Possibly."
I thought of Jared's face when I refused the laundry.
His rage had seemed ridiculous at the time.
Now I wondered whether the chore list had been more than control.
Maybe it was pressure.
A way to make me exhausted, dependent, desperate to keep peace.
A way to push papers in front of me when I was too tired to read them.
That night, Ryan appeared at Amy's apartment.
He looked sixteen instead of twenty-two.
"Dad knows I sent you the airport picture."
"How?"
"Gemma saw my phone."
He handed me a grocery bag.
Inside were wedding cards.
Dozens.
Some still contained checks.
"I took these before Dad moved the safe."
I stared at him.
"Why?"
"Because he told me to deposit them into Harbor Ridge. I knew it was wrong."
Christopher, who had come over after Ryan called, examined the checks.
Several were made out to me and Dwight jointly.
Two were made out to me alone.
One was from my employer.
Ten thousand dollars.
"Where is the rest?" Christopher asked.
Ryan looked sick.
"Dad cashed what he could."
"How?"
"Dwight signed some."
I looked at Dwight's younger brother.
"Did Dwight know?"
Ryan nodded.
Another piece of me went quiet.
Then Ryan reached into his jacket.
"There's something else."
He handed Christopher a flash drive.
"Dad keeps recordings. Insurance. He records everybody."
Christopher plugged it into an offline laptop.
There were dozens of audio files.
The first one we opened was dated six months before my wedding.
Jared's voice filled the room.
Then Dwight's.
Then Susan's.
And in less than two minutes, I heard my husband ask the question that destroyed his last excuse.
"How long do I have to stay married to her before the trust becomes reachable?"
---
(To be continued)
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